


Icarus

by dancingloki



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1876671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingloki/pseuds/dancingloki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>modern day icarus with burns on his back and full of bitterness and throws out cynicism but sometimes he just looks at the sun like it’s the best thing in the world</p>
            </blockquote>





	Icarus

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [this tumblr post](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/58248) by punkwarren. 



> I finally got around to watching Les Mis and I'm having strong feelings about the ineffectiveness of revolutions and the inevitability of oppression
> 
> men like this don't die for causes, but for the people who believe in them

“It won’t work, you know,” he says softly, when the room has quieted and the singing died away.

“It will,” the response comes.

“It won’t work,” he says again, and Enjolras sighs.

There’s a sloshing sound, and a short puff of breath. “It won’t work,” he says again, almost to himself. “Nothing ever changes.”

“Things will change this time,” Enjolras insists, voice ringing with conviction, but he shakes his head.

“Never. Freedom is a dream of the young and stupid. Nothing will ever change. We can’t beat them.”

“How can you say that?”

“It’s true. They’ll always win.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Winning’s in their nature. It’s a fundamental trait of their existence.”

He sees doubt flicker dark over Enjolras’ face, before it’s consumed by the flames that relight in his eyes. “No. Not this time. We’re going to _change_ the _world_ ; change it for good.”

Grantaire hefts the bottle and toasts him, mocking grin in place. He holds the ghoulish smile until Enjolras turns away, passing some words with Combeferre. Then his face drops, and he plays his fingers, tracing little patterns in the wine spilled on the table.

He takes another pull. Nothing will change. Even if the barricades succeed, even if their revolution catches and burns France’s royals to the ground, even if they win their war, still they will have lost.

The world spins on. The natures of men will reveal. Overturn the tyrants, send them to the noose or the sword, and in a few years’ time, new tyrants will have come, exactly the same as the old. The world never really _changes_. They are all mad if they think differently; mad children, desperate to die for nothing. There is no reason he should die among them, not when he knows the truth.

He sees Enjolras, there, waxing eloquent with fire and fervor alight in his face.

Grantaire sighs, and finishes the bottle.

He never was more than a modern-day Icarus. All beings must follow their nature. It is the nature of young, stupid men to die gloriously for nothing, and it is in his nature to be burned.

A street-lamp shines through the window, lighting Enjolras’ golden hair so that it glows like the very sun itself, and Grantaire holds his breath.


End file.
